The Mountain
Sun Nov 18, 2033 Decepticon Central Intelligence Bureau Surprisingly well-lit, the Intelligence Bureau is a series of circular floors with clear quartz ceilings. The offices are along the outside of the circles, allowing anyone walking around in the middle to see into any of the offices several floors up or down. The message is obvious: there is nowhere one can escape the watchful optics of the Empire. Indeed, discreet cameras are everywhere. The offices and meeting rooms of higher ranked personnel can option shift the clear quartz walls and floors to smoked quartz, if privacy is require din the name of the Empire. On the very bottom level, the floor is not clear quartz but milky quartz. The floor sounds hollow, as if there is another level beneath it. Officially, there is nothing down there. Unofficially... Unofficially, there's room 113. Contents: Snowblind Obvious exits: Gravlift leads to Rehabilitation Center. Secure Exit leads to Ministry of Science. Secure Exit leads to Military Wing. Contrail has claimed an office on the top floor of the Decepticon Central Intelligence Bureau, in this crystalline ode to paranoia and Big Brother. For now, the walls of her office are smoked, not clear, though she reminds herself that privacy is merely an illusion. Security? A myth. Two can only keep a secret if one of them is dead. Her door, however, is unlocked. She is expecting a visit. It's taken a little while to get over the hangover. Snowblind arrives on time, however; she's regained full motion, poise, and dignity. Well, most of it. Since she was drunk she didn't realize she lost some of that last nite, so try not to tell her. She'd crumble a little inside. There is a knock on Contrail's door. Tell Snowblind what she is like while overcharged can wait until there is a pressing need to blackmail Snowblind. The door slides into its housing without a sound to usher Snowblind in. There are a collection of three chairs, each suited to a different type of Decepticon bodybuild, before Contrail's desk. There is also a floorlength mirror, which Contrail keeps so as to be able to check for vampires. This only sounds dumb until one hears about how often zombies show up. Vampires have to be next. Contrail looks up, holds out a hand, and bids, "Please, sit down, Snowblind." The door will close behind her if she does. "As you command," is the recruit's reply. Snowblind selects the chair best suited to her, and sits carefully, making sure her tailfins aren't going to get jammed into anything. Contrail is not entirely aware of why Snowblind is here. Yes, she knows that Snowblind has an appointment with her and that Snowblind is terribly out of the loop, but Contrail is not certain as to the specifics. This uncertainty makes Contrail anxious but only belatedly; the anxiety is a learned trait, not inherent. She was not made for this function, not crafted for this cloak and dagger world of shadows. Contrail folds her hands in front of her on her desk and looks Snowblind over. Then she asks, "So you requested an audience. What would you ask of me? And what do you expect to be asked in return?" "I am here on orders," Snowblind says. "Orders from Galvatron, but orders that I would very much have carried out without them being orders." "I have come to pledge fealty, Director," the white and grey dappled Decepticon says calmly. "It was an order, but I would enjoy it nonetheless. Apart from our Lord and his chosen commanders, I have found you to be the most reasonable and agreeable of our ranks of those I have encountered so far." Contrail has to wonder if that is insincere flattery. This double-guessing, too, is learned. As if the word is strange, Contrail rolls it on her tongue, "Fealty. Interesting." Her optics narrow. "In any case, I'm glad to hear that we shouldn't have any trouble together. But fealty, hmm... Personal loyalty is something of an odd concept. I could be dead tomorrow - I won't be," her voice is rather flat, "but I could. I could, if it came down to it, end up backing a different warlord than the one you might like best, if it came down to another Decepticon Civil War. Where would you be then? I would say that loyalty to a concept is by far more valuable than loyalty to specific people. Concepts are stable, unchanging. Concepts do not turn around and give sensitive data to the Autobots in exchange for a briefcase of shanix. Concepts do not decide to back one warlord because he threatened to gut them if they disobeyed. Concepts do not lose sight of what it truly means to be a Decepticon." She raises up one hand, palm out. "I do not mean to make light of your pledge. I am certain that you take it deadly seriously. I just mean to point out that, in making this pledge to me or anyone else above or below me, you are making a trade. You are trading away your right to decide on the merits of concepts to me in exchange for my protection." "What does it matter? My life is already in your hands and in the hands of everyone superior to me," Snowblind replies. "What do the thoughts, concepts and ideals of a scout matter to an Officer? A commander? An allegience? A race?" She rests her hands in her lap as best she can, the elbows jutting far over the arms of the chair. "I am nothing. I was made to be disposable as were the rest of all my type. I am not in a position to learn anything but the most transient of information, should I turn or be forced to turn. I was not made to be strong enough to resist any with reasonable power." "My concepts are whatever you say my concepts are." Contrail looks thoughtful, and she admits, almost absently, "Your thoughts and life only matter to me in an abstract sense. One of you is disposable. Ten of you are an asset. Ten of you are a mutiny waiting to happen, too." She raises a finger. "But you understand what your place is for now, and for later... Snowblind, the nature of being Decepticon is this: to conquer every mountain shown." Contrail tries to look Snowblind in the... chest, because that is where Snowblind seems to keep her optics. "Now you may be humble enough that the only mountain you can see is your own expendability. You will climb that mountain or you will perish trying. That is our way. There will be another mountain looming behind it. There is always another mountain. You will leave pieces of yourself behind in climbing these mountains - and the shattered bodies of your enemies. Who you become later? Well. We'll see, won't we?" "We sit together, the mountain and I, until only the mountain remains," Snowblind says. "Heh," Contrail says humourlessly. "You know, I used to know a Seeker who was factory seconds. Below tolerance standards. Too fragile. He was expected to die early." She smirks. "You may meet him someday. Now this oath. There have been different ways of swearing oneself. Different styles. Different fashions. In some cases, it has been as simple as the application of a decal. The burn of a brand into one's willing metal. The sharing of one's life's fuel - perhaps a bad idea in your case. I think my fuel would be a bit rich for you." Not to mention acidic. "The tearing out of a piece of one's lasercore and shaping it in fire and flame into a Decepticon blazon." Fortress Maximus (FM) pages: When I say small numbers, I don't mean to limit the actual players but rather the context. Example being a small team of specialists blending in and sneaking around, instead of one huge mob of Seekers and Sweeps waltzing in. It's easy for Iacon's defenses and defenders to squash a very obvious invasion, but difficult for them to discover a bunch of people sneaking around. I haven't played FoC so I'm not too familiar with that concept, I was more interested in knowing your reasoning since it sounded radical from my perspective. I'm not that rigid about details anyways, so I'll trust in your judgement on whether you wish to use Iacon or Omega Supreme as the target for the T-Cog. Is there anything you need me to support you with? "Damaging one's laser core seems an irrational choice," Snowblind says. "So what do you suggest, as ritual for this department?" Contrail admits, "I haven't been through that particular ritual, but lasercore damage /is/ pretty unpleasant." She would know. "It is meant to be an issue of trust, however, you see. You say you would put your life in my hands. Go out and wreak my bidding upon the universe. Be used as I would like. But would you really put your life in my hands? Trust those hands not to slip?" She holds out her hands, which seem steady enough. The cameras on Snowblind twist counterclockwise and for a moment give a flash of many backlit, unblinking crimson optics. "Lord Galvatron identified me as a tool. Do you sharpen me... or dull me?" Contrail has a brief moment where she wonders what Galvatron meant by 'tool'. Surely he wouldn't... nevermind. "I would say that depends on how the tool is meant to be used. I myself have been compared with a blunt instrument at times." She leans over the desk. "The fact is, too much trust is unhealthy in this line of work. So I am going to stay with traditional but simple. Hot-branding." She watches Snowblind for any hint of a reaction, but she doesn't expect there will be one. "As you command, so I obey," is the neutral answer, meeting Contrail's expectations. "Where am I to be branded?" So if Contrail commanded something in a hilarious fashion, would Snowblind obey hilariously? These are things to wonder. In any case, Contrail finds herself missing Straxus's smelter. In the fires tended by the first Decepticon, the father of lies? Oh yes, that would be a perfect place to mark unblemished metal with deception. "Hmm. We will have to make do with lesser accommodations, I am afraid, than were available in days past. Come with me to the nearest medical ward. There will be tools there." Snowblind stands and salutes. "Lead the way, Director." Medical Facility Exceedingly well-lit and spacious, this medical facility is attended to by the most talented, respectful, and expensive medics the Decepticons have to offer. The facilities are well-equipped, stocked with the most expensive and impressive equipment. Private wards are available for Crystal City's prestigious public officials as well as visiting dignitaries. Contents: Expensive Medical Team Obvious exits: Gravlift leads to Ministry of Science. Snowblind has arrived. Contrail does lead the way, to the immaculate medical ward here. It takes her a moment to find what she's looking for - a furnace and the branding supplies. They aren't used much these days. Now, few join the Empire who were not simply built as a part of it, and few are built. What need have they for affirmations of faith and devotion? Contrail has never needed to make such an affirmation. She was built a Decepticon, frozen a Decepticon, and awoke a Decepticon, only to be rebuilt a Decepticon. Hers is not a cause to be questioned, only justified. She takes up the brand and tests the weight of it, examining the metal surfaces, before she thrusts it into the furnace. Snowblind looks over at the furnace, arms behind her back, and watches as the metal slowly heats. Soon it will be cherry red, then orange, yellow, perhaps white hot before the mark is made. "Do you enjoy your work?" the drone asks. "Does it matter to you?" Contrail asks, raising an optical ridge as she looks from the brand to Snowblind. "I suppose you wouldn't have wasted the words if you didn't. I do. Of course I do. I serve the Empire and the Decepticon cause. Why should I not be delighted? I have challenges and enemies to dispatch." She smiles, and perhaps it is genuine. "How long have you served the empire?" Snowblind asks. "Since I was created," and longer, "Mmm, around nine million years? I took a long nap for most of that, though," Contrail replies absently. There was that time travel incident, but she is not going to get into that. The brand looks hot enough by her judgement, and she takes it out of the furnace. Contrail tries to grasp Snowblind by the elbow to keep her still and attempts to apply the brand ot her upper arm. Snowblind stands motionless as the brand sears into the armor of her upper arm, sending up wafts of acrid smoke tinted with burning colorant. Her fingers tense. She feels it, certainly - but she is either accustomed to pain, and this does not phase her much - or she is exercising supreme control to keep from flinching or crying out. Snowblind nods. "I am greatly honored. In time, I hope to prove myself worthy of this mark." Contrail encourages, "You had better," and she looks back at the furnace. the Empire will tolerate a great deal of incompetence. Just look at Blueshift and Backfire and Blot! But only so much. (Naybe B-names are cursed.) "Now, off to your duties, unless you have any pressing questions for me." "I have only one question," Snowblind says. "Do you know what it means, to disappear into the mountain?" Seems a strange thing to ask. "I heard it once. A poem, very simple... but containing infinite meaning. Sometimes, when one has time to calculate... a long time... the simple unfolds into elegant, hidden complexity," Snowblind muses, almost wistfully, before turning to face the door. "It is as I said. "We sit together, the mountain and I; until only the mountain remains," Snowblind replies. Contrail rubs her chin and goes along with this, musing aloud, "Well, to be honest, that sounds pretty fatalistic, like something Dead End might say, but that... doesn't sound right. I mean, you have this whole disposable tool thing going on, but you don't exactly seem pumped about it. Hmm. Eh, you make a strategic retreat into the mountain to regroup and plot new plans, which the enemy will never see coming?" "You make your motions so small as to be still, until you have consumed the mountain without its notice." Contrail tilts her head to the side and puts her hands palms up. "...yeah, and if it just outright said that, it wouldn't be poetry." Okay, her new scout is an angry drunk and a mountain-cannibal. Good to know! "There is even deeper meaning, if you calculate on it." With that, Snowblind exits the medical area.